


Shattering Expectations

by Drazyrohk



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Canon-Typical Violence, Fight Sex, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Rare Pairings, Violent Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-04
Updated: 2018-12-31
Packaged: 2019-05-17 23:17:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14841089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Drazyrohk/pseuds/Drazyrohk
Summary: Shared experiences make it easier to read between the lines and understand everything a companion isn't saying...





	1. Chapter 1

It had been a very long time since Cyclonus had met someone who could wield a sword in a manner as skilled as Drift did. Anyone else watching the two fight would have likely labeled Cyclonus as the better swordsmech, but he personally knew better than that. 

After all, it took considerable talent to dull one’s blows so as not to hurt an opponent. It took incredible restraint to pull one’s punches this way. 

As Cyclonus stood before the window in the makeshift training room, arms folded across his chest, he looked not at the stars but at the reflections of the mechs behind him. 

It almost seemed like Drift was playing with the mech he sparred with, but Cyclonus could tell that wasn’t entirely the case. Drift was forcing a smile. His field was pulled close and tight. He had a downcast expression. He still cheekily side stepped and swatted the aft of the mech with the flat side of his sword, he still let out a bark of laughter as banter was exchanged, but he wasn’t playing. 

“What, you’re already done?” Drift taunted in a light tone. 

“Done getting my aft handed to me? Yes, I sure am.” The mech he faced snorted, and they all shared a laugh as the group dispersed. 

Once he thought no one was watching him, Drift tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword. Cyclonus was too far away to hear it, but he was sure Drift’s jaw would be creaking from the force with which he clenched his denta.

Cyclonus turned to face him once the room was empty but for the two of them. He wondered if perhaps Drift had forgotten he was there or hadn’t yet noticed him at all, but it would have been unusual considering how tightly wound he was. Therefore, it didn’t surprise him when Drift lifted his helm and spoke to him without actually looking at him. 

“Well?” Drift asked in a quiet voice. “What are you waiting for? An invitation?” 

“And why not?” Cyclonus asked in response. His arms were still folded across his chest. His field was still carefully guarded. 

“We’re hardly in polite society out here, Cyclonus.” Drift said.

“There is no honour in attacking an ally without asking them first if they wish to engage.” Cyclonus said, one of his brows twitching. 

“I don’t give a flying frag about honour right now.” Drift said through gritted denta. “Honour is the last thing I need.” 

“A shame. You try so hard to wear it like a badge, or armour.” Cyclonus remarked. He lowered his arms to his sides and lifted his chin. 

Drift’s lip curled ever so slightly and revealed the fangs hidden beneath. His optics were pale and burned bright. “Armour gets heavy.” He stated. “Sometimes you have to take it off.” 

“Best to do so in private.” Cyclonus replied, speaking from experience. 

“There are times it’s at least a two person task, Cyclonus.” Drift’s voice was growing increasingly rough, and his vents were beginning to heave. “Sometimes there are latches you can’t reach on your own.” 

“No swords.” Cyclonus said, helm tilted ever so slightly.

“Fine by me.” Drift said. His servos released the hilt of his greatsword, and Cyclonus was moving before it even hit the ground. Drift brought his arm up to block the blow directed at him and delivered a vicious punch to Cyclonus’ faceplates. “I don’t need it anyway.” 

Evidently not. Cyclonus was impressed. He shook it off and ducked below the next wild swing. Drift was upset, it made him unpredictable, but years and years of battle had honed Cyclonus’ entire frame into a precision weapon and taught him to look for patterns in even the most chaotic of situations. 

He grabbed Drift’s forearm as he struck again, pulled him forward and drove his knee up into his stomach. Air wooshed from Drift’s vents, but he couldn’t stagger out of fighting range since Cyclonus still had hold of him. He chose instead to headbutt him in the face, denting his nasal ridge. 

Cyclonus let out a grunt of discomfort, leaned back, raised his leg and kicked Drift hard in the center of his mass. He released his hold on Drift’s arm as he connected and watched him tumble backwards. 

Gracefully rolling out of his tumble and getting his pedes beneath him, Drift was up and rushing forward again in an instant. He stayed low, got under the backhand that Cyclonus aimed at him and tackled him round the hips. 

Cyclonus seized a pointed finial in his servo and wrenched. Drift cried out, driving a fist into his side and leaving yet another dent behind. He shoved his weight forward, made Cyclonus slide back a pace or two. 

No pulling punches. Cyclonus raked his talons over Drift’s back, hooked them under plates and tugged. Neither had drawn energon yet. He wondered if the last threads of Drift’s frayed control would snap if either of them did. 

Repeated punches to his side in the vicinity of his t-cog hurt more than Cyclonus appreciated. He once again brought his knee up and Drift reared back to avoid the blow. Cyclonus aimed his talons at Drift’s neck which prompted a startled curse and a swift backpedal. 

They stood a few feet apart, both of them venting quick. Drift adopted a more defensive stance and watched carefully as if he expected Cyclonus to push the next attack. 

“Any better yet?” Cyclonus asked. The amusement in his voice seemed to incense Drift, who darted forward once more as he predicted. 

Their next spat was lightning quick, each mech blocking and dodging and landing blows equally. A sharp strike across Drift’s face split his lip, and a well aimed swipe scored a cut across one of his cheeks. 

In turn, Cyclonus received yet another series of dents on his forearms. Drift’s punches were meant to cause damage, and landing them didn’t seem to be making him feel any better so their frequency and strength simply increased. 

He grabbed Drift’s arm and twisted it. As Drift turned, Cyclonus drove him towards the wall but he got his leg up and kept himself from impacting. A backwards swing of his helm connected with Cyclonus’ already bruised nasal ridge and this time it was the jet who was cursing.

They drew apart again, gave themselves a moment to breathe. There was a tension in Drift’s frame, an anticipation. Cyclonus had to admit, this was more fun than he’d expected. He didn’t think either of them was trying to kill the other, but this definitely still had a no holds barred feel to it. 

Drift rubbed the energon from his cheek and straightened. Steam hissed from his vents and he smirked. “Nothing that Ratchet can’t fix?” He asked. 

“Hm. I suppose that would be wise.” Cyclonus agreed, his plates all ruffling before falling back into place seamlessly, as if he were trying to shake off whatever pain he might be feeling. 

“No optics.” Drift said as he began to circle slowly. 

“No tearing throats out with our teeth.” Cyclonus murmured. 

Drift let out a short laugh. “And no cheap shots to the array.” He suggested. 

“And no wings.” 

“No wings? Fine. No finials then.” 

“...” 

“I mean it. They’re sensitive. That wasn’t very funny.” 

“Fine.” Cyclonus concluded with a nod. “Shall we?” 

“Please.” Drift offered him a quick grin and lunged towards him again. Cyclonus missed his feint and tried to block high, only to find a fist driven into the same spot on his side. 

“Augh!” Surprised by the blow, Cyclonus wasn’t fast enough to keep his pedes from being swept out from under him. He rolled before Drift could land another punch, heard the fist intended for his face connect with the floor instead and let a flash of smug triumph move through his field when Drift yelped. 

Even more satisfying was the expression on his face when Cyclonus grabbed hold of his ankle and yanked his feet from under him in turn. Now they were rolling on the floor, each trying to pin the other. While Drift’s digits weren’t tipped with wicked claws like his were, Cyclonus still found that there was plenty of reason to keep them from getting into his seams. 

A hard yank of the cables in his shoulder made his arm go numb. He retaliated by going for the ones in Drift’s hip with his good servo. Talons hooked around wires and pulled hard enough to make Drift cry out in indeterminate emotion. 

Drift punched him repeatedly in the face, then shoved and wriggled his way from beneath Cyclonus and got clumsily to his feet again. 

Cyclonus rolled onto all fours, bracing himself on his good arm. This time, when Drift grinned, he could see genuine pleasure in the gesture. The small laugh that escaped the other mech held actual mirth. 

Getting carefully to his pedes, Cyclonus rotated his arm a few times to work the cables back into place. He flexed his talons once he regained sensation in his servo, his optics remaining fixed on his opponent. 

Drift’s optics glinted in invitation. The air that rushed from his vents was hot enough to make condensation bead on his finish. 

Cyclonus made the next move, surging forward with his talons brought to bear. Drift raised his own servos, their digits interlocked and it became a grapple where each tried to use their weight to overthrow the other. Keeping his helm bowed so that his horns would hopefully deter Drift from thing to headbutt him again, Cyclonus growled softly. 

Face to face with Drift, both of them with sharp teeth bared, optics gleaming and struts creaking with effort, he felt more alive than he had in some time. It was different than the fights he’d had with Whirl, the fights they’d had with the Decepticons. It wasn’t a battle to the death, it was a show of skill. A test of endurance.

Drift’s high performance engine rumbled in response to his growl. Cyclonus pushed forward and met greater resistance. He could feel Drift’s arms shaking. He shifted one of his pedes forward and Drift moved one of his back to compensate. 

Talons digging into the backs of Drift’s servos, Cyclonus heard his vents hitch. He pushed his field down and Drift responded by radiating determination. 

“Submit.” Cyclonus said quietly. 

“Not a chance.” Drift said in a breathless tone. Never again, he said without speaking the words aloud. Now he was pressing harder against Cyclonus, trying to regain the ground he’d lost. 

Bowing his helm a little further, Cyclonus let the tip of one of his horns rest against Drift’s throat. He pushed against him again, horn sliding up the front of his throat and into the underside of his chin, forcing it up and his head back. 

An awkward angle, and one that threw off Drift’s balance. 

“Submit.” Cyclonus repeated. 

“I will not.” Drift snarled. His servos were shaking now too, his vents were coming faster, more shallow. Panting. Faltering. 

“Was this not what you expected?” Cyclonus asked in a low voice. 

When Drift didn’t answer him, Cyclonus braced his feet and pushed once more. This time, Drift didn’t fight against him. He let himself be driven back until back met the wall. Their digits still interlocked, Cyclonus pinned his arms as well. He pulled his horn away from Drift’s neck and lifted his helm so their optics met. 

Trembling digits tightening their grip, Drift swallowed hard and held Cyclonus’ gaze. That anticipation hadn’t fled from his field. Cyclonus let his own weave into it, seeking anything else that might paint this particular scene a different colour. 

Glossa darting out to wet his lips, Drift drew in a slow breath. Invitation still burned in his optics. 

Polite society or not… there were many things one didn’t do without first asking permission. 

When Cyclonus tugged his servo free, Drift didn’t try to keep hold of it. He also didn’t lower his arm, keeping it right where it had been pinned before. Cyclonus took Drift’s chin in hand and leaned forward. 

“Was this more what you expected?” He asked. 

“No.” Drift said honestly. When Cyclonus pressed his thumb to Drift’s lip, his breath was hot as he ex-vented against it. “I expected our roles to be reversed.” 

“You should have known better.” Cyclonus said. 

“Some mechs just never learn.” Drift said in response. 

Cyclonus moved his servo away and closed the distance between them, sealed their mouths together in a heated kiss. Drift’s lips immediately parted, their glossae met and all hesitation, any doubt that Cyclonus had was pushed away.


	2. Chapter 2

Denying Drift in the moment was difficult. In fact, it was one of the hardest things that Cyclonus had the displeasure of doing in recent memory, but he knew better. 

When heated kisses drew their frames closer and closer to one another, Cyclonus allowed it, but once Drift’s servo found its way boldly between his thighs and expectantly rubbed his panels, he pulled away with a groan. 

“Stop,” He breathed. “Not here. Not like this.” 

“We’re the only ones here. Why not here? Why not like this?” Drift asked and moved in for another kiss that was biting and overly firm. 

Ex-venting sharply, Cyclonus indulged his sparring partner a moment longer before he tore himself away once more. “Drift,” He said in a stern tone. “We both know this would be a mistake.” 

“Everything about this journey so far has been a mistake,” Drift growled. “So how about you shut up and let me make this one of my own volition, Cyclonus?” 

“Because you aren’t the only one who would be making it,” Cyclonus said, voice low and field sympathetic. “I know what you are feeling. If we follow through with this, you’re going to wake up tomorrow morning feeling even worse. You know that as well as I do.” 

“I don’t care.” The fury that had driven Drift to fight was welling up again, pressing into Cyclonus’ field and frame.

“Is that supposed to convince me?” Cyclonus asked, chin lifted ever so slightly and optics narrowed. “You have lost this fight, Drift. It’s time for you to admit your defeat.” 

“I can still fight, is that what you want?” Drift shoved against Cyclonus, tried to push him back and away. 

Cyclonus seized hold of his arm, twisted it around behind him and shoved him face first into the wall. Drift let out a string of rather foul and filthy curses, but his struggling abated almost as soon as it began.

“What I want is for you to want this for reasons other than desperation,” Cyclonus said against Drift’s audio receptor. “What I want is for you to take a step back, concede your defeat and sleep this off. If you still want me in the morning, you will know where to find me.” 

Cyclonus’ words made Drift go rigid and still. Made him freeze in place. Cyclonus took that as his cue, released his hold on Drift and turned to leave. 

He paused once before he reached the door and looked back over his shoulder. Drift was watching him silently, and his optics seemed overbright. There was more than enough time for Drift to close the distance between them again but he remained where he stood. 

Cyclonus held his gaze for a few seconds, then he stepped out into the hallway and headed home. He told himself it was the right thing to do, no matter how hard his frame was trying to convince him otherwise. 

 

Tailgate was home when Cyclonus returned to the habsuite. The minibot took one look at him and retrieved the field patch kit from below his recharge slab. Cyclonus didn’t wait to be told to sit down, he made himself comfortable on his berth with a short ex-vent and allowed Tailgate to crawl into his lap. 

“Who was it this time?” Tailgate asked as he applied a smear of nanite cream to the cut below Cyclonus’ optic. 

“Drift.” Cyclonus could feel Tailgate go still, could feel the intensity of his gaze. “It was a sparring match. Nothing nefarious.” 

“Okay.” Tailgate’s field and tone held that unerring trust that made Cyclonus appreciate the minibot’s presence more and more. “You enjoyed yourself.” 

“I did.” Raising a brow, Cyclonus observed Tailgate curiously. “Is it that obvious?” 

“You’re beat up, charged up, sort of frustrated, but your field is mellow.” Tailgate was smiling, his tone suggested as much. He went over Cyclonus’ servos carefully, making sure none of the mesh wounds were terribly deep. “And you’re letting me fuss over you. I know how much you hate the fussing.” 

“Hm.” The monosyllabic reply was all Cyclonus was willing to offer Tailgate in response, and he was pleased his roommate didn’t press the issue. 

After Tailgate finished and climbed down, Cyclonus stretched out on his back on his slab. When he turned his helm, he saw that Tailgate was sitting with his legs crossed, hands clasped in his lap and visor lit eagerly. He was staring at Cyclonus. Expectantly. 

“What?” Cyclonus frowned. “If you’re expecting me to divulge anything further, you’re wasting your time and energy.” 

“Uh huh.” Tailgate sounded playfully dubious. 

“I’m serious.” Cyclonus curled his lip a little in a sneer. “I’m going to sleep.” 

With that he rolled onto his side, put his back to Tailgate and closed his optics. After a moment, he heard Tailgate shuffling about, then heard soft footsteps moving across the floor to the door. 

“I’ll be back. Don’t wait up for me!” Tailgate called, then the door opened and he was gone. Once the door closed behind the minibot, Cyclonus lay still for a moment then turned onto his back once more. 

Tailgate was right. He was charged up. There was no way he’d be able to recharge like this. There was no way he could rest with the taste of Drift on his glossa, the memory of hot breath against his lips, the thought of those blazing optics fixed upon him when he looked over his shoulder. 

If memories were all he got, for now he would take it. He’d use it. 

His frame wasted no time rising to the occasion, and Cyclonus seized the opportunity without hesitation. 

 

 

“Do you want help with that?” 

It would have been an innocent question coming from anyone but Rodimus. Instead, it was loaded with a badly worn poker face and more than a hint of amusement. 

Drift stared at Rodimus without replying, without moving. He stood frozen in the doorway with the greatsword clutched in both servos, his fans still running and warm air curling from his vents. He narrowed his optics and Rodimus pointed hurriedly to the blade. 

“With your sword, I mean.” Rodimus continued. His optics slid past the sword a fraction. “Polishing it or whatever.” 

“You can help me sheath it.” Drift said at last in a strained voice. When Rodimus’ optics lit in surprise, Drift offered him a smile that showed off his sharp denta. “Your torso looks about the right size.” 

“That doesn’t sound very fun.” Rodimus raised his servos in surrender. “I’m getting the distinct impression you’ve had a rough night.” 

“Why are you in my hab suite?” Drift asked as he moved to the wall to put the greatsword in its stand. 

“I was hoping you’d want to have a drink with me.” Translation: Rodimus was hoping that Drift would put up with him talking his audials off while growing increasingly inebriated because he’d had a mildly inconvenient day. “It was a day and I was really looking forward to the prospect of hanging out.” 

“Not tonight, I don’t think. I sort of need some alone time.” Drift muttered. His finials were laid back like an angry feline’s ears. Rodimus hadn’t noticed the rather obvious body language, but that wasn’t surprising. 

“I bet.” Rodimus snorted in amusement. 

Drift didn’t find anything about this amusing. He wanted to go hide in the washracks for a few hours and work this out of his system. 

He had too much to think about to handle Rodimus tonight.

“It might be best for you to share those drinks with someone else, Rodimus. I’m-” Drift began. 

“In need of some cleansing meditation or something like that, yeah. I get it. Don’t worry, I’ll head to Swerve’s instead. Uh…” Rodimus hesitated, looking at him with a softer, more serious expression. “Unless you wanted to just talk? We don’t need the drinks to do that.” 

“I appreciate the offer, but I’m not sure I’m going to be great conversation tonight.” Drift let his field convey to the best of his ability that it wasn’t Rodimus making him feel this way. 

“Okay.” Drift didn’t blame Rodimus for the relief he felt in his dear friend’s field in reply. “I’ll see you later then.” 

As Rodimus headed to the door again, he hesitated. “Is there anything I should know?” He asked. “Any fires that I need to put out?” 

“No,” Drift replied automatically. “Nothing you need to worry about. I promise.” 

“Okay.” Rodimus nodded and smiled gently before continuing on his way. 

Once the door closed, Drift clenched his servos so hard his knuckles creaked and he left dents in his own palms. He sucked in a deep, harsh breath and let it roughly escape. His field rippled like a pond that someone had just tossed a small boulder into. 

Why did Cyclonus have to be _right_ all the time? Why did he have to _know_ things? All Drift wanted right now was to shove him up against the wall and-

He turned mid thought and stormed into his private washracks. It was one of the nicer perks of being an officer aboard the _Lost Light,_ and he was eternally grateful for it right now. 

Residual rage and frustration made Drift viciously punch the wall in front of him before he bothered turning the water on. There was no shortage of dents on the wall already, or of paint scuffs from when he’d gotten particularly vexxed. 

In here, in this place, in his ‘inner sanctuary,’ Drift felt it safe to let that bit of his past show. It was somewhere only he saw. No one, not even Rodimus, came into this room. No one saw the marks on the walls. No one heard Drift’s furious muttering. No one would potentially walk in on Drift repeatedly self servicing with increasing force and vigor. 

Even that didn’t make him feel better. It took the edge off the charge that had ramped up during the fight and the kisses they’d shared after it, but Drift still went to bed feeling dissatisfied. 

And when he woke the next morning, his first thought was of Cyclonus, about what the other mech said the night before. _If you still want me in the morning..._

He had to think hard about it though. He had to determine if the feelings he was having were lust (totally justified, Cyclonus was a work of art, a finely tuned war machine who had changed nothing about himself for centuries but for the horn he wore that Tailgate made for him) or if it was something much more sinister. 

Drift knew he hadn’t won that fight. But what rules had they been following that they hadn’t agreed upon before the fight began? Were they fighting like Autobots, or were they fighting like Decepticons?

Logic dictated the former, seeing as Cyclonus had every right to take Drift whichever way he wanted last night and instead he had told him to walk away. But there was that part of Drift deep down, the part that had needed the fight in the first place that was whispering that whatever Cyclonus took from him, he’d earned the right to. 

So if he were to walk into the hab that Cyclonus and Tailgate shared right now, and Cyclonus chose to take what he’d denied himself-

But that wasn’t who Cyclonus was. He was a mech of honour and there was no honour in the things Drift was imagining. 

There was only one way that Drift was going to know for sure. 

 

There was no answer. Drift had buzzed for entry twice and there was no answer. He was beginning to feel foolish, standing in the hall outside the door with his expectant and hopeful expression turning to one of embarrassment. 

He took a step back and stared at the door with his finials laid back and his mouth pulled into a tight line. 

Mainframe and Jackpot stepped out into the hall and gave him curious glances as they made their way towards the common area. Drift heard Jackpot snicker and mutter under his breath just before they were out of earshot. 

“Wonder what Cyclonus did this time.” 

Drift’s finials couldn’t lay any flatter but that didn’t stop them from trying. A subtle quiver moved through them and Drift tried to force himself to relax. It wasn’t until he turned to go that the door actually opened. 

Frozen to the spot, Drift had to keep himself from turning too quickly, looking too eager. When he looked over his shoulder at the door, he saw Cyclonus standing there with a confused frown on his face, his optics dim. 

It was the first time Drift had thought to check his chronometer, suddenly worried that he’d come calling at inappropriately early hours. But no, it was well within the parameters of polite waking hours. 

Realization slowly stole over Cyclonus’ face and he let out a grunt. Reaching up, he pinched the bridge of his nose and shoved the door open further. He jerked his helm in what Drift hoped was an invitation to come into the darkened hab suite beyond. 

This was something that Drift hadn’t expected. He thought that Cyclonus would have been like him in this regard, waking early to meditate, to go through sword forms, to prepare ones frame and mind for the day ahead. He wasn’t expecting sleepy, dishevelled Cyclonus to shuffle across the room like a terrorcon and fail multiple times in a row to get the supplement pod for morning blend into the machine on his counter. 

“I thought you were Whirl.” Cyclonus said in a voice roughened with disuse. It made his already deep growl just a little deeper. 

“Does Whirl often bother you in the morning?” Drift asked with the twitch of a brow. 

“Always.” Cyclonus muttered. Drift worried he was going to fall asleep standing up as he held his well used mug under the spout of the dispenser. 

“So should we wait for him then?” Drift asked, then he immediately spluttered without eloquence when Cyclonus turned to look at him with mild horror. “Wait until he comes I mean! Until he _goes,_ until he’s finished bothering you!” 

Cyclonus was still for a long moment, then he snorted and shook his helm. “No point in waiting on Whirl for anything. He doesn’t keep a schedule.” He said. Then he yawned. 

Drift felt his armour tighten in response. Cyclonus had a very impressive set of fangs. Very impressive. And seeing his glossa only reminded Drift of the kisses they’d indulged in the night before which wasn’t helping at all. 

He turned his helm away, hoped that not looking directly at Cyclonus would help him keep his wits. He startled when a cup was shoved into his servos, his gaze returning to Cyclonus with only the barest hesitation. By then, the other mech was already walking away, moving to sit down. 

A glance at the cup showed Drift a substance that could barely be considered a liquid. It smelled strong, he hadn’t asked for it, but he wasn’t one to turn away free fuel. He took a sip… he’d had worse. It didn’t taste as bad as it smelled, but the texture left a lot to be desired. 

Cyclonus was drinking his without even waiting for it to cool down. And he let out a soft groan of appreciation as he lowered his cup, his optics a bit brighter when he turned them to Drift. 

“Before we begin,” Cyclonus murmured. “I have to ask you a question.” 

“Okay.” Drift followed Cyclonus to the slab he was sitting on and settled next to him. “I’m listening.” 

“Would you like to talk about it?” Cyclonus asked simply and raised the cup to continue drinking. 

It shouldn’t have been surprising but Drift still hadn’t expected Cyclonus to ask him that. He risked another mouthful of the morning blend he’d been given while he mulled over his answer. Cyclonus waited patiently, the warm air from his vents washing against Drift’s frame as he watched him. 

“Is that what you want from me?” Drift finally asked in reply. When Cyclonus looked at him quizzically, he continued. “For your victory. Is that what you want to claim? An answer to that question?”

Cyclonus’ servo clenched on the cup he was holding. His talons etched the paint on the outside of it slightly. His optics seemed to brighten a little more, his brows knit and he let out a very deliberate ex-vent. Slow. Drawn out. 

“No.” He said simply, then he raised his cup to his mouth and drained its contents. Then he reached out, took the cup from Drift’s servos and put both vessels on the shelf by the large window above his slab. “It’s not.” 

“Last night… you said you wanted me to sleep it off. You told me to come and find you if I still wanted you in the morning.” Drift kept his voice even, willed his vents not to start hitching. “Was that what you wanted as a reward for your victory?” 

“Yes.” Cyclonus said, his tone certain. 

“And what exactly was it you planned to do with me once I got here?” Drift asked and there was a rasp in his voice as his vents stuttered. 

“To be completely honest with you, I didn’t expect you to come. I expected you to have cooled off overnight, or to have found someone else to give you what I denied you.” Cyclonus replied honestly. 

That stung a little more than Drift cared to admit. Did he give off that sort of vibe, that sort of energy? Did he come across as flippant and flighty? That _foolish?_ Sleeping it off was one thing. Fragging it off after having it pointed out to you that it was a really bad idea was something else entirely. 

“I had already resigned myself to working it out of my own system and of us never speaking of it again.” Cyclonus continued. 

“I thought I made it pretty clear what I wanted last night,” Drift said. “And yet you don’t seem to think I would still want you when we were no longer in the moment?” 

“‘In the moment,’ desires can be intense enough to muddle ones processor.” Cyclonus shrugged ever so slightly. “I wasn’t going to take advantage of that.” 

It might have been Drift’s imagination, but Cyclonus sounded a little put out. 

“You’ve never come across as the sort of mech who would.” Drift said hurriedly. 

Cyclonus was silent, but there was a look in his optics that gave Drift the impression it was only because he was trying to figure out the best thing to say and the best way to say it. 

Drift beat him to the punch. 

“You see me.” Drift’s voice was soft, there was a tension in his field. “You _see_ me. Not many others do. Last night, you didn’t laugh. You didn’t back off or run away. You don’t look at me with fear in your optics. You don’t look at me and see Deadlock. You see me and that has to come from somewhere in your past. Some shared experience. I just… wasn’t sure what experience that might be or what it might lead to.” 

“I can say with a degree of certainty that my intentions are not the same as the ones you harboured for me last night.” Cyclonus hadn’t broken optic contact since Drift started speaking. His stare was unerring. “You said you thought our roles would have been reversed. You thought I would wind up the one with his back pressed to the wall. Answer me this, Drift… if that had indeed been the outcome, if you had been the victor of our fight, what would you have done with me?” 

“I would have fragged you through the bulkhead if you would have let me.” Drift said without hesitation because it was true. He had been in the dark places in his processor. He would have pinned Cyclonus down and fragged him until he could see the light at the end of the tunnel. 

And Cyclonus was right, he would have felt like a heap of slag in the morning if not immediately after they were finished. It would have been a terrible idea. And in the moment, he wouldn’t have cared, and he’d said as much to Cyclonus. 

“And now?” Cyclonus asked. There was no judgement in his tone, none in his optics, none in the expression on his face. 

Drift had to swallow hard to get rid of the lump that rose up in his throat. He clenched his servos until his struts groaned, he let his denta grind together. He didn’t dare look away. 

“I didn’t win the fight. So it doesn’t matter, does it?” He asked softly. 

“It matters to me. It matters because I want to remember what your answer is. I want to remember the next words you say.” Cyclonus said, one servo lifting and a single talon curling under Drift’s chin to keep him from looking away. “What do you intend to do with me?” 

Glossa flicking across his lips briefly, Drift swallowed hard again. He was held captive by Cyclonus’ stare. He was all too aware of the meshing of their fields, the warmth of Cyclonus’ vents. 

“I intend for us to finish what we started last night.” Soft. Halting. Hopeful. Drift’s words seemed to light a fire in Cyclonus’ optics, their glow much brighter than before. 

All of Drift’s dark imaginings were just that. When Cyclonus kissed him, it wasn’t as hard or biting or claiming as he’d thought it would be. It wasn’t a kiss that Cyclonus took, it was one that they shared. There was no glossa shoving past Drift’s lips to plunder, just a gentle swipe across the bottom one in polite request for entry. 

It wasn’t what Drift wanted. The realization that he hadn’t only been expecting rough treatment at the other mech’s clawed servos but had been eagerly anticipating it made Drift’s armour clamp down and his vents hitch. 

When Cyclonus pulled away with a deep rumble from somewhere in his chest, he caught Drift’s bottom lip with one of those glorious fangs and grazed it enough to leave a mark. 

“What is it?” Cyclonus asked in a whisper.

“I’m not made of glass,” Drift replied, his brows knit and optics dark. “You don’t have to be so gentle.” 

“I’m not going to hurt you.” Cyclonus’ tone was firm. It left no room for arguments. 

“I’m not asking you to.” Drift breathed in response. 

“Then let’s lay out some ground rules.” Cyclonus stole another kiss, ex-venting warm air against Drift’s mouth. “No optics. No tearing throats out with our teeth.” 

“Biting is okay. But nothing Ratchet can’t fix.” Drift said hurriedly. 

With another rumble, Cyclonus leaned in and nuzzled Drift’s throat, placing a kiss against the front of it. “Finials?” He asked. 

“Yes.” Drift breathed out, chin lifted to offer Cyclonus better access. “Wings?” 

“Please.” Cyclonus practically purred. The reverberation combined with the very deliberate drag of a glossa against sensitive throat cables made Drift’s array heat swiftly. 

“And… Tailgate is okay with this?” Drift wasn’t entirely sure what possessed him to ask such a thing but it had escaped his mouth before he could stop it.

“Is Rodimus?” Cyclonus countered without missing a beat. 

“He’d probably say something like ‘it’s about time,’ or ‘oh thank Primus,’ or something rude like that.” Drift let out a soft gasp of laughter. Cyclonus’ teeth were on the same cables he’d been licking before and biting down with just the right amount of pressure, or the laugh wouldn’t have sounded so weak. 

“I’m fairly certain Tailgate would approve,” Cyclonus said. “Any other hesitations?” 

“None whatsoever.” Drift murmured in reply. To add to the finality of his statement, his panels folded back to bare his array.


	3. Chapter 3

These things always went the same way. To the victor went the spoils, and that usually meant the victor was the one doing the spiking. 

Cyclonus was full of surprises, he was continuously shattering Drift’s expectations. Instead of going straight for the valve that Drift had helpfully bared for him, he wrapped his talons around Drift’s spike. 

The shock must have shown on his face and in his field because Cyclonus chuckled softly and gave Drift’s spike a squeeze. 

“I thought you said no more hesitations?” Cyclonus asked. 

“Maybe I should have asked you if there were going to be more surprises.” Drift replied. His spike twitched with interest in Cyclonus’ servo. 

“Perhaps you shouldn’t make assumptions based on past experience. You and I obviously have a lot to learn about one another.” Cyclonus said, then he was pushing Drift back against the slab and sliding his way down his frame. 

Drift let out an inarticulate, inelegant sound of need when Cyclonus took his spike into his mouth. His hips bucked but Cyclonus seemed to have anticipated this and moved enough that the motion didn’t make him choke. 

Then Cyclonus pinned Drift’s hips down to keep it from happening again. He took his spike all the way to the back of his throat, his fangs grazed the surface lightly in the process. 

“Oh frag!” Drift blurted out. Then Cyclonus _sucked_ oh gods how did he even manage that with those hollow cheeks of his? 

Drift closed his servo immediately over one of Cyclonus’ horns and tugged firmly. He let out a shockingly high pitched sound that he would have been embarrassed about if Cyclonus wasn’t literally trying to suck his brain module out through his spike and robbing him of all coherent thought. 

Cruelly, after a few bobs of his helm, Cyclonus let Drift’s spike slip free of his intake, the tapered tip of his glossa dragging across the head. “Has it been awhile?” He asked with a twitch of his brow. 

“Wouldn’t matter if it has been, how are you _doing_ that?” Drift panted. “Is… is this okay?” He asked in regards to the servo he was still gripping Cyclonus’ horn with. 

“It’s the real one, if that’s what you’re inquiring about.” Cyclonus said, and he was smiling ever so wickedly. “Tug away.” 

“Don’t mind if I dooooo oh gods!” Drift let his helm hang back and gripped harder as Cyclonus returned to his task with enthusiasm. “Frag!”

His spike really did not get the attention Drift felt it deserved. Maybe that’s why he’d been so keen on using it last night. It was either more sensitive than he remembered or Cyclonus was just better at this than he’d ever imagined. Or maybe it was the fact that those hollow cheeks had to be tiny black holes that Cyclonus had perfect mastery over. 

One hand steadily holding his hips still to prevent him from rocking deeper into that intake that surrounded him, talons curling gently into the seams there, Cyclonus let out a deep rumble that made Drift arch. He took Drift’s spike as deep as he pleased, as slowly as he wished, he explored each ridge and groove and biolight with his glossa and applied maddeningly even suction. 

This was going to be the fastest Drift had ever overloaded from a blow job before. 

“I know you won the fight,” Drift gasped. “I acknowledge that but this is _not_ fair, you bastard.” 

Cyclonus twitched a brow at him and looked up but didn’t disengage. He didn’t even break his rhythm or a sweat or his concentration, he continued on steady and infuriatingly thorough and Drift was pretty sure his struts would never be solid again. 

Cyclonus didn’t stop until Drift was on the cusp of release, and the sudden lack of pressure and stimulation was like getting a bucket of icy cold water being poured down his back. Drift whined, completely unashamed of doing so, but before he could try and do more than that, he was being pushed very firmly onto his back on the slab. 

Cyclonus straddled him, his incredibly heated panel rubbing deliberately up the length of Drift’s still aching spike. He didn’t seem to be paying any attention at all to the other half of Drift’s array. Not that Drift was going to complain about that. This was fine. Better than fine, this was amazing. This was far beyond what he could have anticipated. 

“I approve.” Cyclonus said as he gazed down at Drift from his perch. “You’re a little more than proportionate. I had been… curious about that.” 

“Are you trying to tell me you’ve imagined what my spike might look like?” Drift asked, fingers scraping at the slab he lay on as Cyclonus rocked lazily against him again. 

“Girth. Length. Colour. Vibrancy of biolights. Taste.” Cyclonus said in a conversational tone. “You definitely do not disappoint.” 

There was a click as his panel slid away, and the next rock against Drift’s spike was accompanied by slick heat of an entirely different variety. 

“You know it’s not the size that counts though.” Drift said once the fireworks had stopped erupting in his processor. “It’s how you use it.” 

“And I trust you’ll be able to show me sometime in the future. It’s not your turn.” Cyclonus said with a slow smile. “But maybe you’ll win the next fight.” 

Then he was lifting, positioning himself and sheathing Drift within him. 

When Drift shouted and bucked and instinctively sat up, Cyclonus braced a servo on his shoulder and shoved him back down again. He kept pressure there, but not so much that Drift couldn’t break free.

Taking control without completely removing it from Drift. 

Cyclonus was tighter than Drift could have ever imagined. It made him feel panic, quite frankly, made him immediately question if Cyclonus wanted to be doing this at all. Drift didn’t think he was untouched, but it definitely seemed like he hadn’t been in a good long time. And it wasn’t a matter of him not being wet enough, there was plenty of lubrication happening and Drift had to admit he was pretty flattered that Cyclonus was so worked up despite him being the one doing most of the work. 

Then Cyclonus let out a deep groan whose reverberations elicited an equally deep gasp from Drift, and the walls of his valve rippled. 

“Size may not matter in most cases, but it certainly counts in this one.” Cyclonus rasped, optics positively blazing as he gazed down at Drift. He smirked slowly and his vents hitched when it made Drift’s spike twitch. “You truly are a wielder of greatswords, aren’t you?” 

“You’ve been spending way too much time with Tailgate.” Drift said with a laugh in reply. “Lines like that-” 

Words fled when Cyclonus clenched down on him and then rocked very deliberately, driving Drift’s spike in a little deeper. The rest of his statement escaped as something closer to ‘oof!’ and any further attempts at coherent speech were forgotten as Cyclonus began to move in earnest. 

Drift didn’t try to sit up again, but he did raise his servos to seize Cyclonus’ thighs. When he squeezed them and let out a moan, he felt another ripple move through the valve walls encasing him. When he shifted his hips upward into Cyclonus when he brought his own down, he was rewarded with a guttural sound and the rake of talons down his chest plate. 

They moved together after that, finding a rhythm that made their charge climb in tandem. Drift’s hands moved from thighs to hips slowly, only holding, not trying to guide or pull. Cyclonus was venting harshly, his wings were quivering. Drift didn’t think he was doing it deliberately, but those talons were leaving all manner of gouges and scratches on his chest and sides. 

Incredibly worried about his own stamina, worried that he’d burst before Cyclonus was done with him, Drift still found it hard not to meet every bounce with a short upward thrust. It felt too good to hold back, and Cyclonus let him know without words when he was trying too hard to dictate pace and depth. 

The coil of heat and tension deep in his belly was almost painful. Drift wasn’t sure how much longer he could hold on-

Then Cyclonus slammed his hips down, squeezed his thighs closed on Drift’s waist, gasped hoarsely and overloaded with a brilliant burst of charge. Transfixed by the sight, helplessly pinned by the force of Cyclonus’ grinding and the weight of his frame, Drift could only watch and wait for it to be over so he could find his own release. 

And damn it all, Cyclonus’ valve sucked just as greedily at his spike as his mouth had. Drift writhed slowly beneath him, moaned and arched, clutched at legs and hips and the slab beneath him. 

As soon as Cyclonus relaxed with a groan and a shudder, Drift bucked upward into him. His hips left the slab, and he let out a sharp cry. His helm snapped back, his servos tightened on Cyclonus’ incredible and frankly underrated thighs enough to leave small dents. 

All the time Drift had spent in the washracks the night before hardly seemed to matter. An embarrassing volume of transfluid pumped into Cyclonus, filling him with every jerk and twitch of Drift’s spike. Letting out a rather mortified moan, Drift lifted his helm with difficulty to cast an apologetic look at Cyclonus-

Who evidently didn’t mind the mess. At all. In fact, Cyclonus squirmed like a cybercat in heat and let out a breathless sound of pleasure as he overloaded again, both servos braced against Drift’s chest plate. Drift’s spike responded by giving no indication it was going to depressurize anytime soon. 

Oh boy. They were going to be at this all morning at this rate. 

“Primus.” Cyclonus growled once he came down again, static flickering over him and steam hissing from his vents. 

“Frag.” Drift let his frame relax, his cooling fans roar. He loosened his grip slowly and winced when he looked at the obvious indentations. “Oops.” 

Cyclonus looked down at him in mild concern, but when he saw that Drift was only referring to the damage to his legs, he grunted in dismissal. “I’ve had worse.” He said. 

“But have you had better?” Drift asked automatically, and he began to laugh as soon as the words left his mouth. 

“It’s honestly been so long that I would have a hard time answering that question with anything but a resounding ‘no.’” Cyclonus said honestly. He lifted off of Drift with another soft gasp, and it was hard to keep the disappointment out of his field. “Are you alright?” 

“Very much so yes. Much better than I probably would have been last night.” Drift said. “I might not be done just yet.” 

“I am.” Cyclonus looked at him with an expression that wasn’t really sympathetic, but it was certainly understanding. 

“Damn.” Drift sighed heavily and stretched, his frame truly relaxing afterward. “You sure? That was pretty incredible.” 

“I am sure. And yes, it was.” Cyclonus was tracing the marks he’d left on Drift’s chassis, none of them deep enough to warrant visiting a medic. 

“Any way I could convince you to go another round?” Drift smirked up at Cyclonus, who twitched a brow and gave him another of those slow smiles. The mech certainly needed to smile more, he was a handsome devil when he did. 

“It’s not your turn.” Cyclonus repeated, optics glinting. He smoothed his servos over Drift’s chest, then patted it softly. “But maybe you’ll win the next fight.”


	4. Chapter 4

No matter how hard Rodimus hugged his pillow, no matter how cute his smile was, no matter how playful and pleading his field, Drift wasn’t giving in. He wasn’t going to give him anything. 

“Come ooooon.” Rodimus protested when Drift continued to stare at him in silence. 

“No.” Drift said firmly. 

“But I have to know!” Rodimus released the pillow and reached out to grab hold of Drift’s hands. “Tell me, even just a little bit. There’s not a bot on the ship who wouldn’t want to know!” 

“Which is exactly why I’m not telling you. Because then every bot on the ship _will_ know and that’s not fair to anyone involved.” Drift remained immovable. He didn’t kiss and tell. 

“After seeing the footage from the training room, I am burning up inside. It’s like the world’s worst cliffhanger, Drift. Please just tell me how it was, just tell me that?” Rodimus practically begged. 

“You’re the worst.” Drift stated, and Rodimus squawked in protest. 

As Drift got up off his berth, Rodimus popped to his pedes and followed him from the room. “Fine, don’t tell me. Keep all the lurid details to yourself. If there even are any… I bet you didn’t even do it. I bet it never happened.” Rodimus was saying in that petulant tone he used when he wasn’t getting his way. 

“You can believe whatever you’d like. I’m still not talking.” Drift said as he opened the cupboard and pulled out some additives for his energon. 

“I think I’ll do that, thanks.” Rodimus leaned his hips against the counter, folded his arms across his chest and adopted that famous feigned disinterest that drove Ultra Magnus insane. 

“Did you find someone else to talk with last night?” Drift asked as he filled a cube with energon and stirred the additives into it. As soon as he sipped it, he nearly regretted it. While it washed the taste of that horrible morning blend Cyclonus had given him out of his mouth, it also erased what lingered of the taste of the jet himself. 

“Huh? Oh, yeah.” Rodimus didn’t drop his guarded stance but at least he stopped staring into the middle distance. “Yeah, I wound up going to Skids place.” 

“Good.” Drift took another sip and ex-vented softly. He caught a glimpse of the faint scratches on his chest plate and moved once more, this time to his washracks to fetch a cloth and polish. “I worried you’d have a bad night after I chased you out.” 

“Who me? On this boat? Never. There’s always a party somewhere.” Rodimus hadn’t followed him again, opting to go throw himself onto the love seat dramatically, taking up the entire seat. “It’s all good Drift.” 

“So you did just come to bother me about this morning?” Drift snorted, opting to sit on the floor cross legged instead of trying to dislodge his best friend’s gangly legs from the only proper seat in the room. 

“I didn’t come to bother you. I came for the gossip. You’re being so tight fisted, you know that? That’s out of character.” Rodimus said with a subtle whine. 

“Gossip is different from money. I can deal in one but not the other.” Drift said with a flippant wave of his servo and a flick of his audials. He continued drinking his energon and stared at Rodimus over the rim of his cup. 

“I’m happy for you, regardless of what happened. Because you were really wound up last night and now you’re not.” Rodimus said after a moment or two of silence. “So that’s good.” 

“It is.” Drift murmured. 

Despite wanting another round and being denied it, despite the slightly awkward goodbye they’d shared at the door, he felt better. There was a strange sense of unfinished business, but he could address it later. 

 

When Tailgate poked his helm into the hab, it was clean and quiet. Cyclonus was awake and looking out the window, but when he heard Tailgate enter he turned. 

“Hey!” Tailgate greeted, stepping into the room. “Is it okay if we watch movies in here?” 

“Who is we?” Cyclonus asked immediately. 

“Minibot brigade, falling into rank!” Rewind called from out in the hall, and his declaration was followed by a nervous chuckle from Swerve. 

“What movie?” Cyclonus asked next. 

“Uh. We were thinking something historical this time.” Tailgate said as he let his friends in. “If that’s okay.” 

“Of course.” Cyclonus said with a nod. He moved to sit down on his berth, but made room just in case someone wanted to sit there as well. It faced the largest wall in the room, it was an ideal seat for watching movies if Rewind was the one projecting them. 

He wasn’t quite smiling, but he was coming so darn close to it that Tailgate couldn’t help staring. He’d heard people talking about yesterday’s fight in the training room. Apparently someone was passing around copies of the security footage, and while Tailgate had refused to watch it, he’d been forced to listen to them joke about it. 

Swerve hadn’t been joking. He had mentioned he wasn’t sure who was in a more humiliating position, Cyclonus or Drift, but he hadn’t laughed. And Rewind had seen it but was more interested in the fight itself rather than what had happened afterward. 

All things considered, Cyclonus was in an excellent mood. He’d obviously been out today too, there were more empty cubes on the window sill than there had been when Tailgate left this morning.

Tailgate climbed up next to Cyclonus, making himself comfortable. Rewind got settled in the front, Swerve sat next to him. Everyone was in reach of the snacks, everyone could see the ‘screen,’ and as soon as the movie started, Tailgate activated his comm. 

_Everything alright?_ He asked his roomate.

_Everything is quite alright, yes._ Cyclonus replied without looking away from the film projected on the wall. _And with you?_

_I’m good._ So Cyclonus wasn’t talking. Not even to him. That was fine… as long as Cyclonus was happy, Tailgate was happy. 

 

The glow didn’t last as long as Drift had hoped. That familiar darkness, that cold numbness was beginning to creep up to the surface again after only a week. The logical part of his mind knew it was lies, those things whispered from his memories. 

The emotional part? That part didn’t want to listen when he tried to reason with it. 

He didn’t want to admit that the cycle was beginning again. He didn’t want to sink back into the fury. He didn’t want to feel that need to lash out, to fight it, to make the pain go by any means necessary. 

Times like these, Drift needed a fix of some sort. Fighting helped, but only when he had the right partner. 

And last time, last week, he’d found a good one. He’d found one that worked. 

The thing was, Drift didn’t want to ruin it. He didn’t want to mess up the first good thing he’d had in a long while. He didn’t want to make assumptions. They’d followed proper rules of engagement. 

It only took Drift two days to decide that was the best way to continue things. Challenge Cyclonus, win the fight, get what he needed. Easy. 

Much easier to think or say than to actually do. 

 

“So, you and Drift are okay, right?” Whirl asked Cyclonus randomly one afternoon in the bar. 

Pausing with his drink partway to his mouth, Cyclonus frowned at the other mech. “Yes.” He said in a carefully measured tone. “Why would you ask that?” 

“Curiosity.” Whirl was looking over Cyclonus’ shoulder as he spoke. 

Cyclonus lowered his drink and shifted in his chair to follow Whirl’s gaze. 

Sure enough, Drift was in the bar. He was standing just inside the doorway, his optics fixed on Cyclonus in a particularly keen and focused manner. When he saw he’d been spotted, he drew his swords. 

“Cyclonus!” Drift’s voice was loud and carried across the room easily. Conversation stopped and every optic in the place turned to look towards the swordsmech. “I want a rematch!” 

“Ah.” Cyclonus said in understanding to Whirl as he turned back. He picked up his drink, finished it, set the empty glass down and stood. “You may wish to vacate.” 

“Nah.” Whirl had a greedy light in his optic and he leaned back in his chair with an amused snort. “I wouldn’t miss this for the world.” 

“Suit yourself.” Cyclonus muttered as he turned fully to face Drift. 

“No no no no no! No! Uh uh! No! Out! There are _rules,_ guys! Rules!! No guns, no swords, no briefcases!!” Swerve was shouting, his servos waving about as he unwisely put himself between Cyclous and Drift. 

Tables were emptying. People were hurrying to the exit and edging around Drift carefully so as not to provoke his ire. 

“My sincerest apologies,” Cyclonus said to Swerve. “I do not think this can wait.” 

“Oh jeez, and I just finished stocking the bar…” Swerve mumbled as he hurriedly moved and followed the mechs heading to the exit. 

Whirl made his way behind the bar and crouched down so only his optic and his antenna could be seen. Said antenna twitched with interest. 

Cyclonus looked at Drift, at his two swords, and tilted his helm to the side. “You appear to out arm me by quite a bit.” He observed. 

Drift hesitated, his field wavered. His swords lowered just a fraction. 

It was all the opening that Cyclonus needed. Rushing forward, taking advantage of that split second pause, he knocked one of the swords from Drift’s servo. When Drift raised the other to retaliate, Cyclonus closed his hand over the other mech’s wrist and twisted just far enough to make him drop it. 

“Hey! What are- oof!” Drift’s words were cut off when Cyclonus brought his knee up into his midsection firmly enough to make him double over. Then he gasped when he was shoved firmly against the wall next to the door, his optics wide with shock. 

Cyclonus could feel it in Drift’s field. That same darkness, that same anticipation. Buried beneath the shock of what had just happened, the disbelief that it was over so quickly, Cyclonus could feel Drift’s need. 

“Was this wise, I wonder?” Cyclonus asked close to Drift’s audial. 

Vents hitching, plates ruffling, Drift didn’t answer. He didn’t even glare, he was too taken aback by the unceremonious end to a fight that hadn’t even truly begun. His optics stared into Cyclonus’, his lips parted to speak.

“What, is that it?” Whirl suddenly asked from behind the bar. “I feel really ripped off. I want a refund.” 

“Whirl, get out.” Cyclonus said in a tone that left no room for argument. 

Unfortunately, such tones were lost on a mech like Whirl. 

“Yeah, no, I don’t think so. Least you could do is let me stay to see what happens next.” Whirl scoffed. 

When Cyclonus looked over at him, Whirl was leaning his elbows on the bar and gazing at them with a wicked glint in his optic. 

“What?” Whirl clicked his claws and snickered. “I was a Wrecker. I know what’s coming. Namely, you two. Or at least you should be soon. And if not, well, Ratchet’s got a cure for everything-” 

“Get. Out.” Cyclonus snarled, sharp teeth bared. 

“Make me.” Whirl narrowed his optic. 

“You would like that, wouldn’t you?” Cyclonus retorted. 

Something strange, something interesting was happening to Drift’s field. It had stilled, settled, but now it rippled with what felt suspiciously like jealousy. Perhaps possessiveness. Curious…

“We’ve been in enough fights with one another for you to know the answer to that.” Whirl said with a sharp laugh. 

“I’m not going to tell you again. You best get on your way before I decide I’m not done fighting.” Cyclonus rumbled threateningly. 

Drift was venting a little more quickly. There was a subtle click as his cooling fans came on and were hastily overridden. 

“Nah. I’m in the mood for drinks and a show, Cyclonus! Entertain me.” Whirl demanded. 

“You are an arrogant little pit spawn, Whirl.” Hissing, Cyclonus partially turned away from Drift to glare at the mad rotary. “If you think I would lower myself to-” 

“Do I need to give you two the room?” Drift asked in a strained voice, interrupting Cyclonus in his tirade. 

While Whirl cackled from the safety of the bar, Cyclonus turned his attention back to the mech he had pinned to the wall. Drift was staring at him with that same blazing look, the one he’d given Cyclonus after their fight in the training room. 

“Or can we finish what we started?” Drift asked in a soft voice, pitched for his audio receptors only. 

“Let’s get rid of-” Cyclonus began in a tone just as quiet. 

“Let him watch if he wants to. Nothing he hasn’t seen before, I’m sure.” Drift’s tone had hardened a little, and his optics glowed with promise. 

“You’re likely right. But for a mech with no face, Whirl has a very big mouth.” Cyclonus had leaned in as he spoke, and their breath mingled. 

“Let him talk. Everyone else is anyway.” Drift rasped. 

“My my. I seem to have robbed you of your dignity.” Cyclonus smiled ever so slightly and Drift’s vents hitched again. 

“Frag, you two are actually going to do this here, aren’t you?” Whirl’s voice asked from much closer than before. It appeared their whispering had driven him out of his hiding place behind the bar. 

“It seems we are.” Cyclonus replied without looking away, without leaning away. “What is your plan, Whirl?” 

“My plan?” Whirl hummed thoughtfully. “My plan is go find Rewind. Don’t wait up for me kids! And keep the door unlocked, I’ll be back!” 

With that, Whirl dashed out the door next to them. Cyclonus ex-vented slowly and gave an imperceptible shake of his helm. 

“No time to waste then.” He said, and before Drift could respond he leaned down and kissed him hard. 

Drift returned the gesture with hunger and ferocity, and this time Cyclonus didn’t try to stop him.


End file.
